


The Place Where There Is No Darkness

by talkingtothesky



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Tragedy, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode: s04e18 Skip, Episode: s05e04 6741, M/M, Merry Month of Masturbation Challenge, Season/Series 04, Season/Series 05, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 19:00:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18697363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talkingtothesky/pseuds/talkingtothesky
Summary: Samaritan tortures Harold.





	The Place Where There Is No Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Title quote from _1984_.
> 
> Archive Warnings: death in a one-line flashback, the threat of rape is impending, John is subjected to unwanted painful arousal.

When Greer had announced that he had a visitor, Harold had hoped, perhaps, to see Ms. Shaw. Months of captivity, after sacrificing himself so that his friends might remain free. His Trojan Horse failed to fully infect Beth's laptop before he was captured.

Instead of short and scrappy, his fellow prisoner is tall and grayer than ever. Harold's mouth drops open in horror as the guards lead him in, wrists shackled to bound ankles, forced to shuffle along. They seat him at the table across from Harold, in a blinding white room with no windows, air vents on the walls. The door locks electronically, leaving them alone. John keeps his head down as he places his hands flat on the table between them, then gradually looks up at Harold through his lashes, squinting as his eyes adjust to the light.

It's been months of stubborn silence, refusing to rise to Greer's questioning. Harold's voice is rusty. "No, not you."

John's head dips to one side. "You're surprised? Of course I came after you. I always have."

Harold is caught between absolute fury and sudden tears. "You had a... new job, new life. Why couldn't you forget about me?"

John's fond smile is painfully familiar. "You know that'll never happen."

 _You selfish man._ He wants to say. _Now Root will be all alone._ But he daren't mention Root while Samaritan listens.

His fists shake, tightly clenched on his lap. He's still so angry he could explode, but he forces his fingers to uncurl, lifts his hands, and places them atop John's. "It's good to see you," he admits, although his voice turns whisper thin partway through. But John hears him, slowly turns his hands over, squeezes back, and the joy that darts through Harold is like an electric current, sharp and strong.

Then John's head drops. It happens so decisively that Harold pulls his hands back in alarm, pushing out of his chair, with all the freedom of movement they've allowed him to keep. Sudden flashes of previous simulations - John programmed to slam his face into the table until his nose bled, flecking Harold's hands with red. But there's no blood this time. John is screwing up his face, tongue working furiously inside his own cheek, until he spits out a paperclip. He must have had it wound around a tooth.

He offers his wrists to Harold. "Help me get out of these."

Harold manages to say "No, you can't -!" before every white light in the room turns red. "They know. They're coming." He backs into the corner furthest from the door.

So John frees himself, throws the table at the ceiling tiles, which scatter dust onto the floor. When the table lands a leg breaks off, which John uses to prise away the air vents, looking for a tunnel big enough to crawl through. When that doesn't work he repeatedly smashes one of the metal chairs against the door mechanism, but even with his full strength behind it, it won't shatter, doesn't give.

The whole commotion lasts not more than three minutes, and Harold lets him rage, all the while his eyes fixed for Martine's face to appear. She'll shoot John in the head and leave Harold sobbing on the floor again.

Harold waits, and the lights fade, back to gentle white. She doesn't come.

John tries to wedge a chair leg underneath the sliding door, anything to break the circuits, gain leverage he can use. He isn't getting anywhere, and she still hasn't arrived.

John swears, jumps and kicks the door. And rebounds, clutching his ankle.

"Don't!" Harold manages, at last. "Please. No more."

John's eyes are wild. "I came to get you out."

"I know. Thank you, John."

Reese glances at the ceiling, at the tiles he shattered. "I broke the camera. It can't see us." John swipes a bruised knuckle across his nose, panting from exertion. Harold doesn’t correct him, doesn’t explain the camera is irrelevant. Samaritan sees whatever Harold does. And though they are in Harold’s imagination, he’s constantly fighting the ASI for control.

Harold allows himself to look at John, really look at him, without superimposing Martine's gun. "They usually send a team. Just...move away from the door." He pats the floor beside him. "Sit here. I don't - I don't know what happens next."

John hesitates. It's clear he wants to go on trying. Eventually he reaches a compromise. He hobbles on his cracked ankle and settles on the floor, halfway between Harold and the door. Too far away to touch, and Harold could go to him, but since he’s been denied his rescue attempt, he can at least let John have his protective vantage point.

They sit and breathe painfully for a while. This is the longest iteration yet. Harold knows every detail of this room, has dreamed about all of the walls toppling back, releasing him to open fields and sky. But there's one thing he has - until this moment - overlooked. There's a tiny square vent in the floor, beneath where their table stood. Out of it silently drifts a flower, like a dandelion seed head, but red, tipped with heart shapes. The spores, like tiny cupid arrows, begin to break away, and Harold claps a hand over his own mouth and nose.

"John, cover your airways." He warns, muffled against his own skin.

There's one brand of humiliating torture they haven't tried yet.

John turns to frown at him, hasn't understood the danger. He's closer to the thing, and it's drifting inexorably towards him.

By the time he protects his mouth, the wash of air created by the movement of his hand acts like a magnet. The seed tickles John’s nose, and slips in.

Microbiological warfare. _Of course_ , Harold thinks bitterly. That sounds exactly like something Decima Technologies would be interested in creating.

He runs this train of thought while trying to stop himself focusing on the physiological change John's body goes through. Harold is about to wish John had left his chains on, so he couldn't move this fast. He's scrabbling at the waistband of his prisoner issue slacks, back arching, thrusting into the air. It looks painful, violent, far from the gentle lover Harold once knew him to be.

Harold screws his eyes shut and hides behind his other forearm, sweaty hand still clutching at his mouth and nose. He can't also block his ears. A chorus of grunts, groans and mewls reach him, and he knows John must be trying to relieve the pressure. He stays over the other side of the room, for which Harold is pathetically grateful. He knows Greer is watching this. He doesn’t want to emerge from this simulation and be forced to endure that hateful face speak loftily about the statistics of rape fantasies.

He has no way of knowing how many seeds have dispersed into the air, but he feels one settle at his temple and furiously scrapes it away. It's only a matter of time before they affect him too.

It's typical of a system so committed to eradicating any semblance of privacy, that they couldn't even leave John's dignity intact. Couldn't resist making a mockery of their relationship. Nothing is free under Samaritan’s rule, not even love.


End file.
